


Cats and Dogs

by JoJo



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Community: discoveredinalj, M/M, New Year's Eve, Older Lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/pseuds/JoJo
Summary: New Year's Eve 1995 with Bodie, Doyle, Betty and Cowley





	

**Author's Note:**

> for discoveredinalivejournal's Discovered in a Christmas Card challenge

As Doyle came drifting up to the surface, he heard Bodie grumbling next to him.

“Look, there isn’t room for three of us,” he was saying. 

Doyle, nicely warm, nearly drifted off again but Bodie was clearly getting annoyed. “Cowley,” he growled. “Would you just leave me alone?” Then, a few moments later, even crosser. “George, give it a rest.” Finally, struggling to a sitting position. “Major! Get off!”

Doyle felt Cowley’s feet land heavily on his belly, and then there was a thump.

“He just wants his breakfast, Bodie.”

Bodie flopped back on the pillows. “He’ll get his sodding breakfast. Doesn’t have to stick his paw up my nose in the meantime.”

“He loves you,” Doyle said, comfortable. He moved his legs, felt the warm weight of Betty at the end of the bed. She huffed. “Just like this one.”

Bodie rolled towards him. “And like this one?” he said. He propped himself up on an elbow, and a slow grin came to his face. “Morning, curlytop.”

Doyle hunkered closer, gave him a kiss. “’s cold,” he said. “Bet it’s bloody sleeting again.”

“You’re always cold.” Bodie hooked a knee over the back of Doyle’s thigh, nudged him closer still. “Constitution of a snowman, you.”

“Could do with a nice hot cup of tea, I know that much.” 

“I see.”

Doyle grinned through the grey morning light. Bodie didn’t budge, so Doyle kissed him again, knowing it would work - eventually.

They revelled in each other’s bed-warmth and solid presence for a few moments. Doyle would never tire of that, he decided. Better than anything the doctors had to offer. 

Then Bodie made an inelegant noise of submission at him, yawned so wide Doyle could practically see his tonsils, and rolled out of bed. There was a scrambling sound as Betty launched herself off Doyle’s feet and went after him. Doyle closed his eyes, wondering about having a doze with the reassuring sound of Bodie crashing about in the kitchen as a backdrop. He grinned to himself, started to drift off once more. 

“Here you are then, princess,” Bodie’s voice cut through the pleasant floating sensation. Doyle blinked open his eyes. There was a clack as a mug was placed on the bedside table right by his ear.

“You know, don’t you,” Doyle said, grappling at an extra pillow and struggling to sit. “That this is absolutely the only reason I like living with you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bodie perched on the side of the bed, hands round his own tea. “I cranked up the heating, put the radiator up to six in the spare. Last thing we want is the old boy catching a chill.”

“What time you setting off to meet him?”

Bodie yawned again. He scratched his bristly chin. “Train’s due at King’s Cross at five to two. I’ll just go soon as I’m ready, have breakfast out, go to the supermarket.”

“Oh, and leave me all my own?”

“You have housewifely duties to perform. And the dog to walk.”

"This is true.” 

There was quiet as they drank their tea. After a while the sound of Betty trotting back into the room was followed by Cowley’s energetic scratching at the chair in the corner.

“George,” Bodie growled.

Doyle put his mug down. “What do you reckon’s up with him?”

“The Major?”

“Eh? No. Well, yes. What I mean is, what do you reckon’s up with Mr. Cowley. Our Mr. Cowley.”

Bodie gave a wheezy chuckle at the confusion, and then sobered up. “He said his appointment’s at the Royal Marsden, so you’ve got to wonder. The Big C?”

“Yeah,” Doyle said, gloomy all of a sudden.

“Hopefully we’ll find out when he gets here.”

Doyle braced himself as Cowley landed on the bed again, began walking up towards him.

“You know,” he said, cat breath warm against his chin. “I’m not sure he’ll be very impressed we named our cat after him. He doesn’t even like cats.”

“Your cat, Doyle.”

“All right. My cat. I’m just not sure he’ll be impressed.”

Bodie considered them both. “We could always re-name the mangy beast. Just for the next couple of days.”

“Tiddles?”

“Do me a favour.”

“Well what then?”

Bodie grinned as he stood up. “Seeing as he won't leave me alone and is always interrupting us at a vital moment, I’d vote for Murphy.”

Doyle let loose a cackle that had Cowley digging in his claws. “Nice one, sunshine.” He tickled Cowley behind the ears. “Not sure we’ll remember, but all right. Murphy it is.”

*

The other George Cowley was brisk as he walked up the platform towards the barriers.

Brisk in limb and brisk in thought. He didn’t want a fuss or any sentimentality. 

King’s Cross station was draughty and cold. Nothing like he’d left, however. _The Times_ said it had been -17 in one part of the Highlands yesterday, and certainly Glasgow had been bitter early this morning. London, apparently, was hovering around zero under the freezing rain.

A familiar figure behind the barrier had already spied him. Upright, broad-shouldered, wearing a smart parka, hair short.

Cowley increased his speed, even though it cost him in breathlessness.

“Sir,” Bodie said when he’d reached him. He held out a hand for his bag. “Let me.”

“I can manage.”

A brief smile touched Bodie’s face. He looked well. Healthy. Cowley was satisfied by that. He’d often suspected Bodie would fret not being an active agent, but his new life seemed to suit him.

“How was the journey?”

“Och, it was fine.” Cowley kept up his brisk pace, leading the way over the concourse. “It’s good of you to meet me. And to put me up.”

“Not a problem, sir. We’re glad to have you.”

“Aye well.”

The car – a red Saab hatchback which sounded like a tractor but which gave the impression it could move – was parked on a meter in a side road. 

“Yours?” Cowley asked.

“Yessir. Doyle’s still on his Harley.”

“Good.” 

Yes, that was really good. It seemed to suggest some of the predictions hadn’t come to pass if Doyle was still buzzing about town on his beloved hunk of horse power.

Cowley enjoyed seeing London pass him by as they drove westwards. It had been a while. Bodie’s car, unsurprisingly, had a powerful turbo jump which made him feel quite at home.

“How’s the golf?” Bodie asked as they cruised along. “And the writing?”

“In both cases, the more practice the better.”

“So retirement’s not the wasteland of boredom you feared then?”

Cowley looked sideways. “Not at all. How about for you and Doyle?”

“Well I’m not fully retired, am I? Blimey, not even fifty for six months. The consultancy work keeps me busy. Jack Craine may be out of uniform but he’s still a slave-driver. And I think Doyle quite likes being a kept man.”

“Hah!” Cowley was amused by that. Very. “And how’s his health?”

“Would probably be better if we moved to the south of Spain but he’s all right.”

“Aye,” Cowley said. “That bullet did a lot of damage.”

The very faintest tension entered Bodie’s voice. “Like I said, he’s all right. More to the point, how’s your health, sir?”

Cowley kept his eyes front. “That’s why I’m here, so they can tell me.”

“Right.”

Bodie had always been quite good at reading him, and didn’t press him further. Cowley was grateful for that, and decided to reciprocate.

“That pub?” he said as they drove up the side of a square lined in frosted winter trees. “Wasn’t that one of your old haunts?”

“It’s our local.” Bodie grinned as he slowed to a halt, turned his upper body ready to reverse into a parking space. “In fact, we live opposite.”

Cowley peered through the windscreen. An elegant west London street. Three storey white terraces with black railings and mature shrubs. The lads had done rather nicely for themselves.

Bodie took his suitcase from the boot of the car, led the way up a neat, black and white chequered path. 

“The whole house?” Cowley asked, admiring.

“Ground floor and basement.”

Bodie put his key in the lock, pushed open the door. 

Cowley heard the distinct sound of dog claws skittering up a stripped wood hallway.

“Good timing!” a familiar voice called from somewhere within the house. “I’ve just put the kettle on.”

“In you go, sir,” Bodie said. “Front room’s to the right. There’s a cloakroom opposite. I’ll put this in your room. Oi, you, be polite to our visitor.”

Cowley put his hand down to stroke the head of a handsome-looking black labrador who was nosing at his coat pocket.

“Och, it’s only toffee,” he said.

“Bets,” said Bodie in a warning voice. And then, “Please, go in and get warm. I daresay Jeeves has laid a fire.”

“Jeeves has done more than that,” Doyle said, appearing at the head of the stairs down to the kitchen with a tea towel over one shoulder. “He has crumpets ready for toasting.”

“Doyle.” Cowley held out his hand. “Good to see you, lad.”

“You too, sir.”

Doyle was all smiles. He was casual in a thick grey woollie and jeans. His hair was longer and wilder than it had been in service, and he looked lean but fit. He touched Bodie on the ribs as Bodie passed him with the bag, headed for another door down the hallway. They exchanged a look that was pure... well, Cowley shouldn’t have been surprised but somehow he was. It was pure affection. Love, even.

Sitting by the fire with his tea and crumpets, Cowley felt a wave of gratification. He had been told once that recruiting personnel to CI5 was a wonderful way of destroying lives. Stress, peril, pressure, were all killers. And of course there were plenty of those who had gone that way.

Not these two though.

He looked around their living-room, the books, furnishings and possessions an odd mixture of the two characters. Classical and modern, casual and smart, art, poetry, the military and motorbikes. The black lab dreamed of rabbits on the hearthrug. There was a sandy-coloured, long-haired cat sitting on a chair across the room looking at him very suspiciously. Doyle and Bodie themselves were hip to hip on the sofa. Utterly in tune.

“I’m intrigued your dog is called Betty,” Cowley said.

“Well you know, sir. She’s loyal, good-looking, sleek.” Bodie’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “And can’t make a decent cup of tea to save her life.”

Cowley felt a laugh rumble in his chest. He had a slight pain in his side.

“I’m not sure about calling pets after real people though,” he said.

“Terrible idea,” Doyle agreed.

“And what did you say your cat’s name is?”

“Murphy,” Doyle said, and Cowley laughed out loud.

*

They all played up to their stereotypes in The Scarsdale.

Cuba libre for Bodie, pure malt scotch for Cowley, and Doyle abstemious with the lager.

“Och, just a half, Doyle?” asked Cowley who was buying.

“I’m more of a red wine man myself, sir.”

“Besides,” Bodie added, smacking his lips at the taste of the rum. “He has to keep a clear head for cooking dinner.” There was no need for him to add anything about how booze and Doyle’s beta-blockers didn’t go very well together.

“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble,” Cowley said.

Doyle grinned. “How does mince and tatties sound?” he asked and Bodie decided the old boy’s beam of pleasure was gold.

“Don’t you two lads have a party to go to? It is New Year’s Eve.”

Bodie exchanged a look with Doyle. “Actually, sir, we like a nice quiet life these days.”

Brushes with death, he could have added, have a way of recalibrating priorities.

“Well, well,” Cowley said, “I can’t say I’m not glad to have the company.”

Back at the flat, while Cowley unpacked his suitcase, Bodie made a nuisance of himself in the kitchen.

Betty hung around in the doorway, hoping. 

“Half a glass?” Bodie offered, uncorking a bottle of Bordeaux.

“Yeah, go on.”

They clinked glasses before Bodie went back to messing up how Doyle had laid the table.

Over dinner they reminisced a little. Laughed at a few memories. Shook their heads over others. They talked about the Balkans and peace and sarin gas on the underground. About the royal divorce and whether Pierce Brosnan was any good as James Bond. Which of course Cowley thought he wasn’t.

“Even you would make a better fist of it than this fellow, Bodie.”

“Ah well,” Bodie said.

Tongue loosened by the alcohol, Bodie let Cowley get as far as the Stilton before he asked the main question.

“So, sir,” he said, leaning back in his chair while Doyle looked at him through slitted eyes, drinking him in. “What’s the story with your appointment?”

“Ach,” Cowley said. “It’s just some tests.”

“For something serious?”

Cowley speared a triangle of cheese, vicious. It was all he had to do, really.

“Whatever the news is,” Bodie began.

“You know where we are,” Doyle finished.

Cowley finished his mouthful. “Aye, lads,” he said, and that was that. 

While Bodie washed up, Doyle and Cowley went to find the Scrabble board. Which was Bodie’s idea of hell.

“You’re to let him win,” Bodie instructed, hand around Doyle’s backside as he went up the stairs.

“Piss off,” Doyle returned, cheerful.

At half past ten Bodie trotted up the road with Betty and a bottle of bubbles for the neighbours. They took a turn around the Square. It was cold as charity, the road glistening with a hard frost and the Scarsdale hardly visible through the fog.

The Scrabble had become a little tetchy when he got back, and Doyle was on the verge of winning. 

“All these two letter words!” Cowley said, accent rich in outrage. 

“Tell you what, sir.” Bodie shook his head at Doyle’s innocent face. “How about a night-cap? To cushion the blow.”

“Hmph,” Cowley said.

As he crossed the room to the drinks cabinet, something ginger streaked between his feet and Bodie almost went over.

“George!” he bellowed. “For God’s sake!”

Betty lifted her head from her paws and growled. Bodie heard Doyle’s belly laugh behind him, Cowley the cat bounding from the room, and the other Cowley saying in a puzzled voice, “What?”

“By George,” Bodie corrected himself lamely. “You should hear what I usually say when that bloody mog tries to trip me up.”

“It’s true, sir,” Doyle hastened to add, his voice raspy with suppressed hilarity. “He’s toned his language down in honour of your visit.”

When Bodie turned from the drinks cabinet, tumbler in hand, Cowley had a slightly sour-lemons look on his face. But he brightened up when Bodie passed over the drink.

“Well,” he said. “I see your taste in scotch has improved.”

“Do me best,” Bodie murmured. He went and plumped himself on the sofa next to Doyle. There was never any point not being as close as possible as often as possible these days.

“Everything all right?” Doyle asked him, fond.

“Bloody marvellous.” He’d leaned over and planted a great smacker of a kiss on the side of Doyle’s mouth before he’d thought about such displays of affection in front of the former controller of CI5.

Cowley’s eyes above the rim of the tumbler might have twinkled slightly but he didn’t say a word.

Doyle made them cocoa at midnight. It wasn’t something they normally did, but they reckoned it might be appreciated.

“Here’s to 1996, lads,” Cowley said, raising his mug.

“Better days ahead,” Doyle added.

They chinked across the hearthrug. 

By midnight the coals were glowing red in the grate. Betty was snoring softly. Every so often Bodie could hear the fireworks in Holland Park. The sounds, thank God, didn’t make him antsy anymore. Doyle, glasses on the end of his nose as he read his book, was very warm against his side. Chances were he’d be even warmer later in bed. Warmer than warm hopefully.

Doyle nudged his knee. His hand lifted from the book and pointed.

At the other side of the fire, the two Cowleys were fast asleep together in the armchair. 

“Heh.” Bodie snagged the hand and curled his own around it. “Made for each other.”

“Aren’t we though,” Doyle said.

 

-ends-


End file.
